Hunger
by Winchesterforlife
Summary: Eight year old Dean's just trying to take care of Sammy. But he's sick. And he needs his Dad, but knows that he's not coming. Read and review please!
1. Goodnight

"Dean?" Sammy whimpered, walking over to the couch. "I'm hungry."

Dean sighed, ripping his eyes away from the window and placing them on his brother. At four years old, Sam Winchester had a baby face, curly brown hair, and chocolate brown eyes that could pierce through you. He also ate like no other kid Dean had met before.

"But you just had Mac n' Cheese," Dean reminded him.

"Yeah, but I'm _hungry _Dean," Sam whined. "And there's no food in the 'fridgerator."

Dean knew there was no food left-he'd known that they would run out about a week earlier, and that's when he stopped eating. Except for what was left on Sammy's plate when he was done. Dad was two weeks overdue, and the money was almost gone.

"I know, Sammy," Dean answered. "I'll go get some, okay?"

He reached for the money jar that his father had left in the cabinet, and pulled out the only bill left in the jar-a battered, torn five.

"I'll be back in a while, okay? Do you remember the secret knock?"

"Yup. Two short ones and three long ones," Sammy replied, proud.

"Good job, buddy. I'll see you later."

Dean stepped out of the motel room and out into the cold street, rubbing his bare arms. He'd sold his jacket to pay for cold medicine for Sammy a couple of weeks ago, the remainders of which he was now using.

He sneezed. He was pretty sure that he was coming down with the flu-and that was something that they couldn't afford.

After walking about two miles down the street, Dean found himself standing outside of The Ripe Tomato, the only grocery store in this hick town. Everything was ridiculously expensive- $2.45 for a can of Progresso?-so Dean reached for the cheapest foods, like pasta and bread. He gave in and got a small jar of peanut butter, too-that should make Sam happy.

As he walked up to the counter, he realized how odd he would look to the cashier-an eight-year-old out at 8:45 on his own would surely grab attention. But there was nothing he could do about that, so he unloaded his meager merchandise on the checkout counter.

"Hey, buddy," the cashier said, staring at Dean. "Shouldn't your mommy or daddy be here with you?"

"Dad's outside, in the car," Dean lied, but it felt unconvincing.

"Okay. That'll be $4.89," the cashier said, and his heart broke when he saw the kid pull a torn five dollar bill out of his pocket. "Tell you what? Why don't you get a candy bar, too?"

"Are you sure?" Dean asked, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. Sammy loved candy bars, especially Hershey's.

"Definately."

So Dean grabbed the Hershey bar and held it tight, as the teenager behind the counter handed him his change and food.

"Thank you!"

As Dean walked to the hotel, he was ecstatic. Sammy would have food, and even a treat. Dean could go a couple more days without food-he'd only been feeling a little dizzy, and Dad woud be back soon.

When he passed the sign that was about halfway to the motel, he started coughing. And couldn't stop. He bent over, trying to catch his breath-and fell headfirst onto the hard, concrete ground, knocking himself out.


	2. Awakening

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you know. **

**Read and review please! Should I keep going, or end it here? **

Pain.

When Dean woke up, that was all he knew. The gnawing pain in his stomach, the throbbing of his head, the cold sting of the concrete under his hands. It had started to snow-his clothes were soaked through, and he was absolutely freezing. He sat up and checked himself over, like his father had taught him. His legs were okay-a little scraped up, but he could deal with that. His right arm was fine-but his left wrist hurt like a _sonuvabitch_, and the bone was sticking out at a weird angle_. _He lifted a hand and ran it over his face, stopping at the hairline-that's when he realized he was bleeding.

"Great. Just great," he said, smacking the ground.

He stood up slowly, reaching for the bag of food-luckily, that had been left untouched. The bread was a little smushed, but that was okay-Sammy wouldn't know the difference.

_Oh, Sammy!_

How long had his little brother been left alone? He could have been out for an hour, and it was dark. Sammy hated the dark, and he was too little to reach the lightswitch.

_I gotta get back. _

He practically ran back, coughing and sputtering the entire time. By the time he reached the motel, he was a mess.

"Sammy, let me in!" he screeched, knocking hard.

"D-DEAN! I-is that y-you?" Sammy cried, standing on the other side of the door. "It's dark, Dean!"

"I know, buddy. Just let me in, okay?" Dean suggested, holding back tears. He was in agony, his brother was crying, and everything was falling apart. "It's alright, I promise."

Hestitation. And then-the latch clicked, and Sammy was standing there, his face red and blotchy, snot running down his face. "Did you get the food, Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam, I got food," he laughed-leave it to Sam to think about food when he was practically inconsolable.

"Good-DEAN, YOU'RE BLEEDING!" Sam shouted, making Dean's head throb even more.

"Yeah, I know Sam," he grimaced. "Is it bad?"

"Mmmm-hmmm. Does it hurt?" Sam asked, standing on his tip-toes to get a better look.

"Not really," Dean lied, fighting back tears. "Hey, I'm gonna go take a quick shower. You want me to make you a sandwhich quick?"

"Nah, I'm not hungry anymore," Sam smiled. "I found a dollar under the couch, so I went and got a candy bar from the office."

"You'r'e not supposed to go out alone, Sammy!" Dean shouted. "We've been over this!"

"I-I know. But you had been gone for so long, and I was hungry-," Sam started, sniffling.

Dean sighed. He couldn't argue with the kid-the frown on his face was breaking his heart. "It's okay, Sammy. But next time, stay inside, okay?"

He walking over to the bathroom and locked the door behind him-Sam didn't need to see him do what he was about to do. The first thing he did was take a couple of butterfly strips out of the first aid kit and place them on the cut on his head-he needed stitches, but there was no way he was going to get to the hospital. After that, he grabbed the cloth out of the shower and stuffed it in his mouth-it tasted disgusting, but it would do the job. Then, he took a deep breath through his nose, grasped his aching left wrist with his right hand-and pulled it out and down, to put it back in the right place.

In that moment, the world could have ended and Dean wouldn't have cared. All he knew was agony, and it owned him. The walls were red, his head was spinning, and he slumped to the floor.

Darkness.


	3. Bobby

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you know. **

**Thanks for the amazing responses! I'd thought I'd put up a chapter before I start cramming for midterms...tell me what you think!**

John Winchester was exhausted, both physically and mentally. This hunt hadn't been as easy as he thought it would. How could Bobby _forget_ to mention that the meatsuit that this demon was wearing was only five years old? He'd had a hard time even exorcising it; every time the kid, no, _the demon_ roared in pain, John thought of his own kids.

His own kids, who'd been in a motel alone for about three weeks now. Sam probably didn't even notice; Dean did a great job of distracting Sam from the times he wasn't there. But Dean? Dean knew exactly how dangerous this job was, knew how John could just as easily be dead as on a hunt. Dean was probably freaking out.

John needed to call his boys, just to make sure that they were alright; not only for their sake, but for his own.

He pulled over to a bar on the side of the road and walked in; it was almost completely deserted, except for a guy polishing glasses behind the counter.

"What can I get ya?" he asked, looking up.

"Straight whiskey," John said. "And a phone."

The bartender pointed across the street-of course no one in this hick town would have a phone available. As he walked over, fishing a few coins out of his pockets, he imagined what Dean would say. Probably, _Dad, I take care of Sam all the time. I'm not a baby!_ And he'd be right. But still, John worried.

He dialed the number for the motel, asked for room 13, and was connected through. After the third ring, he began to get worried. After the fifth, he started to panic. At the sixth-

"Hello," Sam said, and a surge of relief rushed through him.

"Hey, kiddo," John replied, grinning at the sound of his son's adorable voice. "It's Dad."

"Hey Daddy! I drew you a picture!" Sam exclaimed. "When are you getting home? I haven't seen you in forever!"

Actually, it was three weeks, four days, and seven hours. But that was forever for a toddler.

"Soon, buddy," John answered. "That's what I was calling about. Can you put Dean on the phone?"

"Sure," John heard the sound of Sam's feet pattering against the hardwood floor. Then a knock on the door. And then-

"DADDY, DEAN'S IN THE BATHROOM AND IT'S LOCKED! HE WON'T ANSWER ME!"

It would take John at least two days to get back to the motel, and that was without traffic. _Oh God, Mary, what do I do?_

"Okay, Sam," he answered calmly-as calmly as he could. "I'll be home soon. I'm going to send Bobby; you stay calm, okay?"

And without waiting for his son's reply, he hung up and called Bobby. He told him the situation; he told him the address.

"You complete _idjit, _Winchester! That's an hour from me and you couldn't have just dropped them over here? I'm going!"

Dean woke up on the floor, choking on the cloth that was stuffed in his mouth and shivering. He ripped the cloth out of his mouth, wrapped his wrist up in a bandage, and looked in the mirror.

"_Sonuvabitch!_ I look awful," he whispered.

Blood was matted in his hair from the cut on his forehead-that was definately the worst part. He was even skinnier than usual-as in anorexia, starving in Africa skinny. The bags under his eyes were like purple bruises, and he was pale under the flourescent lights. That's when the door was ripped off the hinges, and Bobby Singer came crashing into the room.

"DEAN!" he roared; Dean grinned, but winced from the pain. "You're alive!"

And Dean, for the third time that day, passed out.


	4. I'll Be There

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you know. **

**Totally making myself feel better by torturing Dean right now. But there's serious comfort in here! **

Speeding down the highway with an unconcious eight-year-old and a hysterical four-year-old definately wasn't on Bobby's list of Top Ten Things To Do. As he passed each road marker, he thought about how much it would hurt to lose Dean; the kid was like his son. When he pulled into the hospital parking lot, Sam jumped out immeaditly and hovered by Dean's side.

"Sam," Bobby said softly. "I need you to go in and get help for Dean. Okay?"

"I-I don't wanna leave him!" Sam sobbed, his eyes filled with tears.

"We'll be right behind you, I promise," Bobby replied.

Sam nodded, and took off like a rocket towards the hospital doors. Bobby picked up Dean-_Jesus, Sam's probably heavier than this_-and followed him.

"I NEED SOME HELP OVER HERE!" Bobby shouted, as Sam led a doctor who looked about twelve years old over to him.

"Nurse, get a gurney, please!" the doctor asked, taking a stethascope and pressing it to Dean's chest. "His breathing's abnormal. Three-inch laceration on the scalp. Is this your son, Mr. -"

"Singer. Bobby Singer," Bobby began. "No, he's my nephew. I stopped over to visit, and I found him passed out in the bathroom-"

"It's okay. I'm going to take him and check him out, alright? You can wait here with your other nephew," the doctor gestured to the chairs in the waiting room. "I'll come and get you as soon as we're finished."

Bobby placed Dean on the gurney-he laid so still, and was so pale that for a moment, Bobby thought he was staring at a corpse. And then they took Dean through a set of revolving doors, and Bobby was standing there with Sam.

Five hours later, Bobby was still sitting in the waiting room; Sam had fallen asleep a couple of hours ago, quietly hiccuping himself to sleep. Bobby had passed the time pretending to thumb through a copy of _Time _that was older than Sam.

The same doctor from earlier burst through the doors and walked over to Bobby.

"Mr. Singer? Dean's okay," the doctor assured him. "He's awake and alert. He was suffering from bacterial Pneumonia; he also had a broken wrist, a minor concussion, and a pretty deep cut on his forehead that took twenty-four stitches to close. But what really concerns me is the malnutrition. Dean weighs 56 pounds, and he's 4'6; that puts him at a BMI of 13.5. A healthy BMI is above 18.9. A weight that low indicates parental neglect-maybe even abuse."

"Dr. Kline, I can assure you that Dean's daddy would never abuse him," Bobby said.

"Well, I still had to call CPS," Dr. Kline stated. "Dean's been asking for you two. My suggestion would be that you go talk to him; he's eating in his room on the third floor."

"What's the room number?" Bobby asked.

"Room 19 in Pediatrics," he answered.

Bobby carried Sam over to the elevator; he had slept through the entire conversation. When the doors opened to the third floor, he walked over to the pediatrics ward; it was painted in bright hues, but even that could not cheer up the place. It was filled with sickness, despair, and death.

Bobby entered Dean's room, nervous about what he would see. He was pleasently suprised; the cut on his forehead was hardly visable, his left arm was encased in a green plaster cast, and an IV stuck out of a vein in his right elbow. Best of all, he was eating; he looked so different than the sickly child who'd come in merely hours before.

"Hey, kiddo," Bobby grinned. "Feeling a little better, are we?"

"So much," Dean agreed, looking up and smiling back. "I think it's the painkillers."

"Probably," Bobby said, putting Sam down on a chair by the end of the bed. "Now we're gonna get to the hard stuff."

Dean cast his eyes downward, and Bobby gently lifted his face back up.

"Dean. I'm not mad at ya. Not even a little bit," Bobby promised.

"You should be! I left Sammy alone, and I was late getting back and-" Dean started, but Bobby shushed him.

"You were going to get food, and you passed out-because you were sick," Bobby said. "That's not your fault-you were being a good-no, a _great_ big brother."

Dean beamed, and Bobby thought _how little praise does this kid get?_ He'd always guessed that nothing was good enough for John, but he never thought that it had effected Dean that much.

"But Dean," Bobby began. "I need you to know something-if ya ever need me for any reason-any reason at all, you just call me and I'll be there. Okay?"

"Okay," Dean answered. "Hey, Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"When's my Dad going to be here?" he asked, and Bobby could see that underneath the tough exterior Dean showed, there was a scared eight-year-old who just wanted his father to be there.

"Soon, Dean," Bobby answered. "He'll be here soon."

**Thoughts? I thought I'd throw in a little Bobby praise/comfort. John shows up next chapter, and CPS comes in. Only one or two more chapters left here!**


	5. Dad's Back

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you know. **

**Throwing in some John. Next chapter's the last one. Feedback's my crack. **

If there was anything John Winchester hated more than demons, it was hospitals. The antiseptic smell got to him every time-not to mention that every time he was in a hospital, one of his boys was hurt.

He'd been driving for 23 hours straight-no sleep, only a couple of bathroom-and-coffee breaks. He hadn't talked to Bobby since asking him to go check on his kids, and he was frantic. What was going on? Was Dean okay? Or was he dea-

_You can't think like that, Winchester. Suck it up. _

"Hi, I'm John Winchester. My son was brought here yesterday, his name's Dean and I really need to know where he-" John started, before being interrupted.

"You're John Winchester?" said a woman. John turned around, and she got up out of her chair and started walking to him. She was young-probably thirty, with blue eyes and blond hair. "Dean's father?"

"That's what I just said!" snapped John. "And I really need to see him!"

"Mr. Winchester, I'm Rachel Jameson. I work for Child Protective Services. My partner's talking to your son. And I need to have a word with you," she said, looking up into John's face. "Is there any place we could talk alone?"

"Ummm...down the hall, there's a staff room that should be empty," the secretary answered, her eyes wide.

"Thank you," she said. And when she saw the look in John's eyes, she said softly, "Mr. Winchester, the quicker you agree to talk to me, the quicker you'll see Dean. Okay?"

So John followed her to the room. When she motioned for him to take a seat, he did. He stayed perfectly calm, determined to get through this as fast as he could so that he could see his son.

"Mr. Winchester," Rachel began, sitting down across the chipped formica table. "Do you know why I'm here?"

"Yes, I'm not an idiot," John said, staring straight into her eyes. "You think I abuse my son."

"Well, do you?" she asked, staring right back. "Your son was brought here, incredibly sick, and you were nowhere to be found. He's severely malnourished, and scars cover his body. The doctors found open wounds and bruises all along his back. How'd that happen?"

_A restless spirit. _John imagined what the woman would say if he gave her the honest answer-probably that he was insane, and he needed psychatric treatment. John couldn't help it; he chuckled, imagining the look on her face.

"You think this is funny?" she asked, incredulous. "Your son's sick, crying for you, and you think it's a game? What the hell!"

"I don't think it's funny. At all," John answered. "And he fell down the stairs."

"Like I haven't heard that one before. He's got a lot of scars...where'd the rest of them come from?"

Lucas Tierany walked towards room 19, holding a brand-new GI Joe; eight-year-olds like GI Joe, right?

In his five years of working with CPS, he'd found that kids were more willing to talk when he brought a toy. They'd start playing with it, captivated; and then they would start talking about how Mom burnt them with a ciggarette or about how Dad hit them when he got too drunk.

Every time he heard one of these stories, it broke his heart.

When he walked in, Dean Winchester was sitting in bed; Lucas looked him over, out of habit. The first thing that jumped out about Dean was how thin he was; he practically had STARVING written across his forehead. The next thing Lucas noticed was the cast and the IV lines sticking out of Dean's elbow. And finally, he noticed how serious the expression on Dean's face was; he didn't look like an eight-year-old boy, he looked like a man.

"Hey Dean," Lucas greeted the child. "I'm Luke."

"And I don't care," Dean responded. "Where's my brother? I want to see him."

"You can see your brother-right after we talk, okay?" Lucas said. "I got you this."

He handed Dean the action figure, and Dean's eyes softened.

"So, Dean, you were pretty sick yesterday, huh?" Lucas began, careful to keep his tone nochalent.

"Yup. The doctors say that I still am, but I feel better. I just really want a good burger!" Dean replied, carefully extracting the action figure from the case. "The food here sucks!"

"I've heard that," Lucas laughed; he was getting a kick out of this kid. "But you are still pretty sick, Dean. How'd that happen?"

"I was running around without a jacket. My dad warned me," Dean answered-too quickly.

"Is that how you got the bruises, too?" Lucas asked gently.

"No-I fell down the stairs."

"Dean, there are no stairs at the motel," Lucas reminded him. "Where was your Dad when you got hurt?"

Dean bit his lip. "He went to get food."

"Really? Because I talked to your brother-and he said that you went out to get food," Lucas told him. "Dean, you know that if you tell me the truth, I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you, right?"

"Nothing bad did happen to me! I fell down the stairs while my Dad was out getting food!"

John Winchester sat in the chair, watching Rachel pace across the room. He looked at his watch; he'd been sitting there for the past three hours, waiting to see his son.

"Look, you either need to arrest me now or let me see my son," John announced. "It's been hours, I've answered every question you asked-I'd like to see my kid."

Rachel bit her lip. She didn't have anything to arrest John for-she'd just talked to Lucas, and Dean wasn't giving his father up. He insisted that John had just left to get food, and he had fallen down the stairs.

As for how he caught pneumonia, Dean wouldn't answer except to say, "It wasn't my dad's fault."

"Okay then, I'm going."

John left the room, and Rachel followed; they went up to the third floor, and Rachel regained her voice.

"Mr. Winchester, Dean's talking to my partner!" she shouted. "You can't go in there!"

"Watch me," John replied. "Dean!"

"Dad!" Dean replied, grinning ear-to-ear. His dad was back; it would all be okay. His Dad always made everything better.

When John saw his son, it was all he could do not to break down. Dean was okay; battered and bruised, but alive.

"Mr. Winchester, if you could just give me a few more minutes-" Lucas began, but was cut off by John.

"No," John Winchester said, and he sat down by Dean's bed; he wouldn't leave his son's bedside until they were all leaving.


	6. That's How It's Gotta Be

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you know. **

**Last Chapter! Tell me what you thought? Thanks for the responses! This was my first fanfic, and I actually really like it.**

Rachel sat next to Lucas in their car, chowing down on McDonald's and contemplating their latest case. Dean Winchester and his little brother had been brought in by their uncle-Dean had been unconcious, starving, and broken-but Sam, the younger one, was fine. That was how it usually worked in abuse cases-the parent singled out one child, and the other was left alone. But when his father walked into the room, Dean didn't cringe in fear-if anything, he seemed excited to have his Dad in the room.

This case made no sense.

"Dad, I'm so sorry-," Dean began, staring down at his cast. It was already covered in Sammy's doodles, and that was comforting.

"Dean, it's not your fault. You have nothing to apologize for," John looked up, into his oldest son's face-he looked so much like his mother, it hurt to look at him. "I should've been there for you and Sammy. You shouldn't have had to be the parent."

John put his hand on his son's chin, and brought his face up so he was looking into his eyes.

"You know, you're a lot like your mother. You look like her, you're kind like her, and you take the weight of the world on your shoulders like she did," John said. "She'd be so proud of you."

"Thanks, Dad," Dean whispered, tears cascading down his face.

"No problem, kiddo," John smiled-a rare occurence. "Dean, I'll never do this to you again."

"But you will, Dad. We've been here before-and it's not your fault, it's not my fault, it's not anyone's fault. Eventually a case will come along that needs attention right away, and you'll go. But next time, you'll leave more money," Dean whispered. "You don't like it, and I don't like it, but that's how it's got to be."

That night, Rachel walked into Dean's room while John was in the cafeteria, getting a cup of coffee. Dean was awake-he always seemed to be awake when John wasn't by his side. Rachel took the seat by his bed, took his hand in both of hers, and looked into his face.

"Dean, I'm going to ask you one more time," Rachel said, looking at the child. "Did your father do this to you?"

"Rachel," Dean answered, looking much more than his eight years. "My Dad never touched me."

John Winchester was walking back to Dean when he bumped into Rachel. Literally. The coffee he had been holding spilt on her turquoise blouse, and she looked up into his face.

"Mrs. Jameson, I'm so sorry-let me go get you some napkins," John began to walk towards the bathroom, but Rachel stopped him.

"Mr. Winchester," Rachel started-were those tears in her eyes? "Although I believe in my heart that those boys were alone in that motel room, Dean insists you were there. I can't use just your youngest son's statement-he's far too likely to change his story, because of his age. So as soon as Dean's healthy enough to be discharged, you can brong him home."

"Really?" John questioned.

"Yes," Rachel answered. "But please, John-take care of your kids. They need you."

And with that, she walked out of the unit-and the lives of the Winchesters.

Seven days later, as they were packing Dean's meager belongings and extensive medications to leave, John found himself thinking about Rachel's speech and his conversation with Dean. He knew what he should do- he should settle down in the suburbs, buy a house, and raise his sons like any typical widower would. But he also knew that he couldn't do that. No, he absolutely had to get justice for Mary. He had to kill the demon who'd ruined their lives, who had killed the love of his life.

So Dean was right. He would stick around for awhile, make sure that Dean was fully recovered before he left again. He would leave more money next time, and phone numbers for everyone he could think of. But like Dean said, eventually, he would leave.

And that's how it had to be.


End file.
